Like this:

Even though her brother and she said it would be cool to just move the town home to the farm land still she would miss the fields and the river where she spent so much time by herself.

She had created a home for herself out there. Out there in the woods on both sides of “The Strawberry Path” as she called it. It was a place where she could call her own and be alone out of ear shot of her mother. She would lay in the fields and stare up at the clouds discovering one magical shape after another. She would build a mock fire and practice rain dances near the edge of the woods. She would find frogs, eat wild strawberries, pick Indian paint brush flowers and rub them on her cheeks, put buttercups under her chin and pluck daisies. “He loves me, he loves me not?”

She played with all the kids on her street and had been so close to them even babysat by some. It was all such a part of how she was, as much as, who she was.

She would find her father in the garden and spent time with him. She would always find any way she could to spend any time with her father. He seemed to always be working. His job took him away at night now and after he would get home in the morning he would go out and work in the garden and sometimes he would be working in his workshop in the cellar. He had worked so hard to maintain and improve their home over the years; even putting in a three-car garage and a basketball court area for her brother.

They were such a part of the house and the house a part of them.

She would take those memories and all the rest with her as she packed up her room and said good bye to that very meaningful part of her life that had been so bittersweet.